


Beds, Bondage and Brilliant Blue Eyes

by TimeToRemember



Series: Own Me, Hold Me, Love Me 'verse [4]
Category: Infernal Devices Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Slavery, BDSM, BDSM elements (light), Collars, Dubious Consent, Light Bondage, M/M, Master/Slave, Ownership, Rope Bondage, Safewords, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-11
Updated: 2014-09-11
Packaged: 2018-02-16 23:48:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2289170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TimeToRemember/pseuds/TimeToRemember
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will gets tied up. Literally.</p><p>It's not as bad as he expected it to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beds, Bondage and Brilliant Blue Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> I've added the dubious consent tag because although Will turns out to be very happy with the proceedings, he does not initially have a choice in regards to whether or not he wants to take part.
> 
> Secondly, if you're wondering why I'm flipping between tenses like I'm afraid they're going out of fashion, it's because this fic is, at least in part, a writing exercise.

As evening turned steadily into night, it grew quieter and quieter inside the mansion owned by James Carstairs. 

The servants had long since completed their final duties, and most had taken to their beds in preparation for an early start the following day. Those that had been spared that were, in the main, still awake and passing the time as they wished, but the activities they chose to engage in made little noise. The corridors were empty and dark, all lights switched off.

Will Herondale was in the bedroom he had been given on arrival, reading Daniel Defoe’s [i]Roxana[/i] – surprisingly enjoyable, would recommend, would consider reading again – on his bed, a far too large and frankly ridiculous construct – _King-size,_ Frank had informed him tiredly, as if wearied by his ignorance – as he did most evenings, when he wasn’t harassing the kitchen staff – _talking, jeez_ – or wandering around the grounds doing a reasonable impression of a purposeless ghost. 

~

Will tilts his head, attention shifting away from the book in his hands to the sound of quick footsteps approaching his door. Not an unusual sound in itself, but at this time and at that speed, more than enough to warrant some consideration. He doesn’t tense up, not like he would have when he first arrived, but he doesn’t go straight back to reading the book, either. He waits as they get closer and closer, and then Frank comes bursting in without even his habitual perfunctory knock. 

Even though Will had expected somebody, he drops his book in surprise. It wasn’t possible to lock his door and so anyone could walk in whenever they liked, but Frank had never entered without Will’s consent. He always made a point of knocking and then, even more pointedly, waiting for permission to enter before he did so. For him to forgo any kind of warning entirely was uncharacteristic, which was the source of Will’s surprise.  
He reacts quickly, snatching up the book before it can hit the floor, directs a quick glance at the page number, and then deposits it safely onto the mattress. Will takes his time about it, gaze lingering on the cover of the book as if he’s contemplating something deep and meaningful, before he finally looks up with a profoundly disinterested expression. 

He meets Frank’s somewhat wild gaze, blinks, and takes a closer look. Frank’s hair is a mess, his cheeks are flushed, his shoes are unlaced – Will spares a moment to wonder, with appreciation, how Frank had managed to run for as long as he had without tripping – and one side of his collar is pointing upwards towards his chin while the other is folded neatly downwards. On anyone else, such signs would probably pass notice. On Frank, it was startling. 

“What is it?” Will enquires smoothly, projecting studied calm with just a hint of boredom. It’s a valuable skill that serves him well, but James had shown an astonishing ability to see through it with worrying regularity, which Will tried not to think about. Displaying such behaviour in front of Frank, however, was somewhat akin to prodding an angry swan with a stick, and Will found it difficult to prevent himself from smiling at the predictable reaction. 

Frank threw both arms up into the air in a display of what looks like absolute and fundamental despair. “What is it?” he repeats disbelievingly, seething, “ _what_ are you doing in here? You were supposed to be with the Master half an hour ago, and yet here you are, reading _Defoe!_ ”

“I didn’t know you had such a profound hatred of his work,” Will replies blithely, because that’s an opportunity he’s _not_ going to miss, and if he focuses on that, then he won’t have to think about the rest of what Frank had said. “There are, of course, less wordy pieces of literature to peruse, but you must admit that he has a glorious sense of style –“ 

He stops abruptly, intended sentence trailing off into an indignant squeak as Frank loses the remainder of his rapidly fraying patience and yanks him up off the bed. 

“Is there something you want?” Will asks faux-innocently, widening his eyes a tad. But then the look in Frank’s eyes starts to border on the homicidal, and Will is suddenly concerned that the guy might expire of a heart attack if he doesn’t start to behave. So: “Truly, I do not know what this is about,” he ventures seriously. “I haven’t received any instructions today.”

Frank stares at him for a long moment. Then: “Incompetent idiots,” he snarls, pure fury in his expression, and Will smiles involuntarily. 

Frank narrows in on the movement in seconds, and one of his eyes actually twitches.

“ _What_?” he demands. 

Will shrugs, and immediately forgets the need to behave. “I’ve just realized why Carstairs values you so much,” he replies in a deliberately conversational tone. “You do everything, and yet you still somehow have time to follow up on the tasks you’ve assigned to others. It’s [i]very[/i] impressive.” He makes a show of looking Frank over. “Had any further thoughts about taking up a career in the fashion industry? With that kind of attitude, you’d climb the ranks in days. Half of them would adore you and the other half would be terrified of you – it would be perfect.”  
Frank rolls his eyes, and replies frostily: “It’s _Lord_ Carstairs. He owns this estate, in case you’d forgotten.” 

Will beams at him, and doesn’t say anything as Frank ends the conversation there in favour of manhandling him, remaining still and pliant as Frank combs fingers through Will’s wayward hair to tame it, yanks down the sleeves of his shirt, and finally steps back to survey him from head to toe. 

Will is used to it by now, and turns slowly in a circle, letting Frank inspect him without comment. He’s still wearing the clothes left out for him that morning – slim-fitting coal black shirt with long sleeves, matching black slacks sitting low on his hips – minus the boots. 

Frank nods, somewhat mollified.

Holding Frank’s gaze, Will reaches up slowly and flicks open the top two buttons on the shirt, revealing the fact he’s wearing the collar underneath. 

Frank finally cracks a genuine smile. “Good. He wishes to see you.” 

Will’s heart does an odd hop-skip-jump in his chest.

Frank’s expression softens as he guesses the cause of Will’s sudden unease. “He’s not angry with you, and you’re not going to be dismissed from the household.” He pauses, studying Will, and then he adds, shrugging: “Quite the opposite, in fact. From what I can tell, you’ve made a good impression.”

Will relaxes, grinning. “Of course I have. I’m incapable of anything else.” He gestures expansively at himself. “Perfection.”

Frank snorts. “Right. Come along, then.” He turns to stride back out, and Will follows meekly. 

They walk down the corridor, and then up the sweeping staircase to the next floor. “Are we there yet?” Will asks impudently, sticking his tongue out, and Frank treats him to a glare so strong Will is partially convinced that it might actually have the power to kill him. Nonetheless, he keeps it up until they reach the end of the long corridor, asking the same question at random intervals to work steadily towards achieving the maximum level of annoyance, and only goes quiet when Frank knocks loudly on the final door.

Their presence is acknowledged from within, and that’s when Will starts to panic in earnest. It’s obvious – he freezes abruptly – and then it coms to an end as Frank opens the door himself and shoves Will inside.

Will catches his balance quickly, pivoting back towards the door just in time to flip Frank the bird. He gets a gleeful grin for his trouble, but then the large door swings shut with a decisive click and the reality of his location reasserts itself. 

Will turns around, slowly. 

The carpet beneath his feet is thick, so thick that he’s already sinking into it; soft, and dark red, the colour of spilled wine. The walls are wood-paneled and understated but for the few large pieces of art, and the ceiling is painted the exact same shade as the carpet.

The furniture is all dark wood, matching the walls, but none of the pieces are large or thick enough to come across as old-fashioned. The bed is barely an inch off the floor, huge, and flanked by two bedside tables, there are two wardrobes and a chest of drawers, a bookshelf, a desk with a closed laptop placed upon it, and what Will guesses is another violin in a case next to the far wall. The heavy curtains are closed, and the spotlights have been dimmed to about halfway.

Catching movement, Will’s gaze flicks back to the bed, and for a long moment all he can do is stare. 

James Carstairs is sprawled out across it. His eyes are closed, but he’s not asleep – Will can clearly see the headphones in his ears are attached to the iPod lying next to him and he acknowledged Frank less than a minute ago – and he looks relaxed, loose and unguarded. Happy, in a simple way, as if he’s content with where he is and what he has achieved, free of doubts and regret. Will doesn’t believe that’s true of anybody, but he can appreciate the way he’s spread out so comfortably, that he can, at least, be content, and suddenly finds himself imaging what it would be like to be on the bed with him. 

James is dressed smartly, as always, in a steel grey shirt – top three buttons undone – and black slacks similar to the ones Will is wearing, socks and shoes both discarded. Will tries and fails to keep his gaze from the strip of skin that’s visible at his collarbone, and he’s still staring at it when the object of his scrutiny moves. 

James’s eyes open first, and his gaze is sharp and assessing as he focuses unerringly upon Will. He regards him for a long moment, and then nods, shifting to swing his legs around. He stands gracefully, tugs his headphones out of his ears with one hand, pauses the iPod with the other, and only looks away from Will to set both on the bedside table. 

When he looks back at Will, he treats him to a warm smile. 

Will isn’t quite sure what his face is doing, so he attempts to fix it by replacing whatever expression is there with a calm smile. It doesn’t seem to work particularly well, because James’s lips twitch in what has to be amusement, and he shakes his head slightly. 

“Come here,” he says gently, and although his tone is mild, Will knows it’s a command, not a request.

So he obeys. He crosses the room quickly, long strides taking him without hesitation to the large bed and the young man stood beside it, and, on a whim, sinks gracefully to his knees in front of him, head bowed. 

James drags in a sharp breath, clearly audible in the sudden silence. 

Will doesn’t move, pulse thudding erratically.

And then James’s hand touches his head and Will relaxes, breath leaving him in a sudden expulsion of tension. 

Slender fingers stroke through his hair and tug lightly on the ends, and Will sinks into his touch, catlike, as those talented fingers press against his skin. He doesn’t know why it’s so soothing, but it is, and he can barely remember why he was so nervous in the first place. 

James lifts his hand away slowly, stepping back to sit on the edge of his bed. Will flicks his eyes up to see what’s happening, meets James’s pointed gaze, and looks straight back down again, struggling to keep from smiling.

Will hears the sound of a drawer opening – bedside table, he decides – and close again with a soft click, there’s a long pause in which he stares at the carpet and fights the impulse to look up, and then James hooks his index finger through the D-ring on Will’s collar, which, for future reference, was a quick and easy way to get his attention.

Will’s head snaps up and – yes, that is definitely rope that the guy’s holding – he sort of freezes in place, muscles tensing up as he realises what’s about to happen. It’s not that he isn’t okay with the general idea – he’s very okay with James having his way with him, actually, and where did that come from – it’s knowing that he’s going to have to allow someone else to do something to him that will leave him vulnerable. Will was used to fighting for his life, and so his knee-jerk reaction to something that would make that difficult was, understandably, panic.

His jerked backwards and up, and as soon as he was standing he could go for the door, and the element of surprise would allow him to get there ahead of Carstairs, and then he’d be in the corridor, and – 

– and he went absolutely nowhere, because James didn’t let go of his collar. In fact, he’d curled his other fingers around the leather next to the D-ring, and had managed to anchor him in place with seemingly little effort. 

“Hey,” James says firmly, pressing the tips of his fingers to the skin of Will’s neck, “You’re okay. I am not going to hurt you, or let anyone else hurt you. You _are_ safe with me. But we are going to do this. All you need to do is give it a chance; I’ll handle the rest. If you really can’t continue, say ‘red.’ If you’re unsure, ‘yellow.’ If you’re fine, ‘green.’” He stops, studies Will’s expression. Will isn’t sure what he’s giving away, but he knows that fear is somewhere near the top of the list. 

Will was terrified, and he knew why. James Carstairs had purchased him from a club catering to the varied needs of the overly wealthy, and the stories he’d heard about the Lords and Ladies hadn’t made him particularly enthusiastic about belonging to any of them, so to be tied up by one was, as such, not even close to something he was eager to try. 

But then there was James Carstairs. Strong, kind, intelligent James Carstairs, who had treated Will in a way no one else had for a long time. Will wants to dislike Carstairs. He wants to think of him as the villain. He wants to start planning his escape from the mansion, and the city, to carve out a better life for himself. But all that he can think about is how good it feels to have James touch him again, the unique sensation of callused fingertips brushing softly against his skin, of how gentle and unassuming he has been since Will’s arrival, of how all the servants need only the smallest opportunity to talk lovingly about their employer, and he knows that however he tries to paint it in his head, it won’t come close to what’s really happening.

It takes some time, but eventually Will looks up, meets James’s gaze, and grins. “So I’m not supposed to yell ‘bad touch?’” 

James stares at him for a long moment – Will beams back – and then he laughs. It’s a bright, carefree sound, and the last of the tension in Will’s body just leaks away. 

James is still laughing when Will turns around and puts his wrists together behind his back, but he stops quickly. There’s a short moment of silence, in which Will wonders how he could have miscalculated, and then he feels James’s hand on the back of his neck, curling around the collar again. He moves it moments later, but the familiarity of it is soothing, and Will remains still and calm as James begins to wrap the rope around his wrists. 

The rope is thick and soft, and rests smoothly against his skin. It doesn’t tighten or loosen when he can’t help but move, shifting experimentally, but he’s able to feel the knots more clearly as they press into his flesh. It’s tied solely around his wrists, but it’s thick enough and secured firmly enough that it’s not going to slip off however much he tugs at it.

It takes Will roughly three seconds to realise that whatever is happening is not even remotely about making him vulnerable to danger. Because with his hands immobilized behind his back he suddenly feels _safe._ He has to depend on James, and he knows he can, because James wouldn’t have initiated this if that wasn’t the case. He knows that James will look after him, and it’s nice, freeing, really, to be spared the effort he puts into being in absolute control all the time. 

Will realises, vaguely, that he’s being a sap, but he can’t find it in himself to stop.

He can feel James’s hands moving over the rope, tugging at it to check that it’s not affecting his circulation or pinching at his skin, and when James is finally satisfied, his hands glide up Will’s back and rub soothing circles into his shoulders in a way that makes his eyelids droop.

“William.” James’s hand is back on his neck, fingers pressing lightly against the exposed skin above the collar. “Give me a colour, please,” he says firmly. 

Will feels lazy and relaxed; punch-drunk, and it’s glorious. “Green,” Will says, head lolling back, and suddenly it’s so simple. “Green as grass. Emerald green. The greenest green to ever green.” He stops, taking a moment to wonder at the beauty of the alliteration that just came out of his mouth, and realises he’s feeling a little spaced out. He makes a soft, questioning noise, twitching, and then there are hands on his arms and he’s suddenly facing James again.

He sort of falls against James, woozy and disorientated but aware of what he wants, and pushes at him until he parts his legs, eyebrows raised. Will presses himself into the gap and, with a happy sigh, rests his heavy head on James’s thigh. Bracketed by his legs, he feels warm and safe, content. He doesn’t know why, but it’s good. For a long moment, James doesn’t react, and then one of his hands curls around the collar, fingers resting against the pulse-point in his throat, and the other settles in his hair. 

Will’s eyes close.

~

He isn’t sure how much time passed before he came back to himself. He surfaces when he feels James untie the rope and start massaging his wrists, opening his eyes slowly and cautiously. He yawns, can’t help it, and almost drifts straight off again. His body is somehow heavy, and he feels warm and still a little fuzzy and just _fundamentally good,_ and getting up to do something other than this feels like too much trouble.

Nonetheless, he responds to James’s firm encouragement with what he’s sure Frank would consider good behaviour and only the minimum complaints, getting slowly to his feet and stripping off a few layers without much more than a suggestive glance and some eyebrow acrobatics, and gets into the bed without even commenting on how they’re suddenly sharing a room. He feels like he should protest when James curls up behind him, drawing him close enough to wrap his arms around him, but he’s too dozy to put anything together, and resolves to make up for it the following morning.

They’re both asleep in minutes.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm open to prompts on this, because I write more of it whenever I feel particularly inspired to do so, and the right kind of prompt could make that happen. 
> 
> See you on the flip side, folks.


End file.
